


Not Fine

by swaps55



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Blood, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 21:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swaps55/pseuds/swaps55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shepard.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even look up at the sound of EDI’s voice, instead taking in the glitter of shattered glass and hunks of brightly colored polymers now scattered across his desk with a vague sense of amusement. </p>
<p>A bright red splotch drips from his hand and hits the desktop, scattering like a starburst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Fine

_“Shepard.”_

He doesn’t even look up at the sound of EDI’s voice, instead taking in the glitter of shattered glass and hunks of brightly colored polymers now scattered across his desk with a vague sense of amusement.

A bright red splotch drips from his hand and hits the desktop, scattering like a starburst.

One of the fins of the _Destiny Ascension_ hangs precariously on the edge, the dense, round hull and three remaining spikes are somewhere near the comm terminal. The turian cruiser is missing its nose, the wing of the Alliance cruiser rests in his coffee cup.

The splotch widens as the crimson ribbons crisscrossing his hand run down his arm in rivulets, pooling together at the point of his elbow and dribbling onto the table, slowly at first, then faster and thicker.  Light from the desk lamp catches on a large, jagged piece of glass protruding from the skin on the underside of his wrist.  

There is a lot of blood. He should get a towel. Go stand over the sink. Maybe clean up the broken glass. Do something to stop from bleeding all over his quarters. But he does none of those things.

_“Shepard, my readings indicate you require immediate medical attention.”_

His eyes fall on the _Normandy,_ the first _Normandy_ , the _real_ one, not the oversized monstrosity he’s now trapped in, crewed by strangers and flying Cerberus colors. She rests on the desk in three pieces, glass scattered across her bow like flakes of snow. Even in miniature form she can’t escape Alchera.

He plants his other hand, the one not streaked with blood, on the desk to support him, hears the crunch of glass as tiny slivers work their way into the heel of his palm.

_“Commander, I’m paging Dr. Chakwas to your location.”_

“No, EDI,” he says, swiping wildly at the door lock on his command console and sending blood spattering across the ruined remains of the display case. “Everything’s fine.”

He sits down in his chair, head bent, elbow propped on the desk, and tries to breathe.  

The door chimes – minutes, hours later? – and Shepard grits his teeth. “Damn it, EDI, I told—”

“ _Shepard, it’s me.”_

The sound of Garrus’ voice over the comm cuts through the haze. His uninjured hand curls into a fist and he swears under his breath, the smears of blood on the desk and the floor and the display case suddenly seeming like a really terrible thing for someone else to see.

He glares towards EDI’s terminal.

_“Please forgive the transgression, Commander. However your inaction prompted me to initiate medical overrides. Because you did not wish Dr. Chakwas to be involved, I notified who I deemed to be the most suitable replacement based on my observations.”_

_“She means me, Shepard.”_ Garrus’ subvocals take on an urgent flange, something that a few weeks ago ( _years_ , dammit, it’s not weeks it’s two goddamn _years)_ he wouldn’t have been able to detect without whatever tech Cerberus now has jammed inside his head. “ _Don’t make me hack the door.”_

With a defeated sigh he hits the door lock with the side of his fist, vision wobbling dangerously. He hears the doors slide open but doesn’t look up at the sound of Garrus’ boots behind him, instead trains his focus on the _Normandy’s_ starboard wing where it sits drizzled in blood, efforting to keep the black edging on the periphery of his vision at bay.

When Garrus speaks, it isn’t the panicked outburst he expects. Instead his voice remains carefully conversational, the hint of alarm in the upper ranges of his harmonics so faint Shepard has to strain to hear them.

“Did the display case attack you?”

Shepard grunts. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

The shiver of a mandible is the only thing that gives him away. “Really? Because according to your blood pressure readings you’re probably feeling more than a little dizzy right now.”

Shepard closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. He hears Garrus walk into the bathroom, rummaging for something, presumably a medkit.

“Below the sink,” he calls out.

Moments later the turian reappears, medikit in hand, and proceeds to gently brush aside the graveyard of model ships, including the SR1’s hull, to give himself room. Shepard watches dully as it skips off the table and strikes the floor, spinning briefly before coming to a stop near his foot.

“Let me see it.”

Wordless, Shepard offers his bloodied arm, wincing as Garrus rotates it to expose the sizable piece of glass lodged in his wrist, bright beads of ruby red blood welling up along its sides. When the antiseptic hits it he hisses through his teeth. Garrus glances at him, face awfully expressive for someone who doesn’t have eyebrows. Or lips.  

“So. Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Shepard says flatly, grounding his teeth as the turian deftly pulls the shard free and immediately covers the subsequent gush of blood with a compression pad, holding it firmly in place with his talons. Garrus’ shrewd stare forces him to shift in his seat.

“I said _no.”_

But just as Shepard can hear the concern hidden in Garrus’ voice, the turian can hear the carefully concealed panic in his.

Garrus clears his throat. “Well, considering that approach led you to put your fist through a glass display case, maybe it’s time to reconsider.”

Shepard gives him a wary look. “I didn’t actually think it would shatter.”

“Did you think it was bulletproof or something? Cerberus is thorough, but I doubt they thought your ship collection needed protection from snipers.”

What is supposed to be a laugh comes out as more of a croak, and Shepard bows his head again as a wave of dizziness makes the world spin. It’s all he can do to keep from kicking the fractured piece of the _Normandy_ at his feet, or grind it to dust under his heel. His breath comes a little shorter, the fist that feels like it’s always at his throat gets a little tighter.

_Is this what it was like?_ he wonders, for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time. To tumble through space, unable to stay his momentum, spilling oxygen in clouds of vapor as he gasps for breath? A shudder runs through his body, air rattling in his lungs with a wheeze.

“It’s all right, Shepard,” Garrus says with a hum. A talon presses reassuringly against his arm. “I’ve got you.”

“I said I was fine,” Shepard rasps out, each word sounding more desperate than the last.

Garrus cants his head until Shepard is forced to look him in the eye. “I don’t think so, friend. Not by a long shot.”

Shepard grunts. Because as much as he wants to dispute it, the battlefield of broken glass and model ships offers some pretty convincing evidence to the contrary. 

“Look, I get it,” Garrus goes on. “You don’t want your crew to know you’re not invincible. But this is me you’re talking to. What is it going to take for me to convince you you’re not in this alone?”

A wry, bitter smile twists the corners of his mouth. “How are you even sure it’s me, Garrus? What if—”

“It’s you, Shepard.”

 Shepard grimaces. “There is a long list of people who disagree with you. I’m on a ship that’s not really mine, in a goddamn _body_ that isn’t really mine...how am I supposed to do the impossible when I can’t even trust what I see in the mirror?”

“It’s _you_ , Shepard.”

“Then tell me what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s a pause before Garrus answers, but when he does his voice is calm, inarguable. It’s a tone he’s learned from Shepard. “What you have to do. The best you can do it. With people who believe in you, no matter what Cerberus may have done to bring you back.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

Garrus peels away the compression pad and lays a thick spread of medigel over Shepard’s damaged skin, the cool, clammy touch raising goosebumps up and down his arm.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Garrus replies. “Together.”

Shepard rubs his eyes, feels the grit and heaviness of too many nights gone without sleep, lying in bed watching the ceiling as the walls close in, slow and steady, a little more every night. He’s tired, so damned _tired_ and doesn’t know how stop it.

“Okay,” he says at last.

Garrus’ voice lowers as he wraps a bandage around the now-hardened medigel. “If you tell me this was an accident, I’ll believe you. And if it wasn’t, I want you to know we’re going to get through this. I’m right beside you. Every step. Believe it, Shepard.”

Throat dry, Shepard nods. It’s small, but it’s a start.

“EDI’s going to keep tabs on you. Discreetly,” he adds when Shepard gives him a wary look. “She’ll report only to me and Dr. Chakwas, if necessary. Right, EDI?”

“ _Confirmed._ ”

Shepard’s shoulders sag a little, lapsing into silence until Garrus finishes. He does not look forward to showing up in the mess with a thick white bandage wrapped around his arm. People might not ask, but they’ll talk. _Stupid._

“It was an accident,” he says aloud, not realizing how much he needs Garrus to believe it until the words are out of his mouth.

One mandible flicks. There is nothing in his eyes that suggests doubt, even though it’s all Shepard feels. “Then let’s get it cleaned up. And warn me if you decide to go for the fish tank. Glass is one thing, but I’m pretty sure water is bad for carpets. And I’ll confess. I kind of like the fish.”

Shepard smirks, the first moment all night he’s felt…normal. “Don’t worry. I think the fish tank _is_ bulletproof. Cerberus apparently spent a lot on those carpets.”

Garrus rises to his feet, scoops up the trashcan and begins sweeping the shattered remains of the display case into it. For a moment Shepard just watches.

“Thanks, Garrus.”

There’s more wrapped up in those two words than any sentence he’s probably said in his life, _either_ of them, and it’s almost too much to take. But Garrus just nods, mandible widening in his approximation of a smile.

“Anytime, Shepard.”

And he thinks those two words are pretty loaded, too.

He gets up, and looks for a broom.

 


End file.
